


City Sackers

by ozonecologne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Ares and Athena, Benny is Hektor!, Fluff and Angst, Fuck Pandaros, Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M, Poor Dean, Trojan War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 23:06:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4198479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozonecologne/pseuds/ozonecologne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Myths have been written for generations about the relationship between Dean and Castiel. Both gods of warfare, each represented a different aspect of battle: Dean was the passionate, rash, and bloodthirsty fighter who didn’t think much before charging into a fight, and Castiel was the calm, strategic, cold and calculating general of war. Needless to say, they never got along very well.</i><br/>A Greek mythology AU in which Dean is Ares and Castiel is Athena.</p>
            </blockquote>





	City Sackers

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't posted anything in a hot second, and I have such a _weakness_ for Greek mythology. Most of the little stories in here are real myths about Ares!  
>  Hop on over to my [tumblr here](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com) if you want to talk more Greek headcanons! (I have 'em.)

A long time ago, the city of Sparta adopted Ares Leader of Men as their patron god.

The people erected a bronze statue of him, loosely dressed and looking righteous and war-hardened, in the center of the city with his hands wrapped in chains that extended through the stone of the square. Ares’ gleaming musculature chained to the ground served as a symbol to all – whether it be invaders, visitors, or residents – that power and victory would always be rooted in Sparta.

Ares, who prefers going by ‘Dean’ these days, had always thought it flattering. With their regular sacrifices, prayers, and blessings to him, the people of this great city had offered him a home, a sanctuary, and a people to protect (and thus, a purpose). He loved the statue for what it was, and took a pilgrimage at least once a year to keep it polished and proudly shining.

But there were some who did not feel as Dean did about an offering like this one.

Castiel found it incredibly insulting, actually. A god, bound and paraded like an animal or a slave before the court of men? And not just any god, but the god of _warfare_. To Castiel, it was an act of submission, of violation, and how _dare_ those rugged Spartans shame Dean that way?

As soon as he discovered the idol, Castiel flew down disguised in a storm and snapped the nose off the offending statue. It would serve as a reminder to the people of Sparta that it was only a likeness to a god and not the god himself: Dean would never be tamed or tied down, as they were so fond of boasting. Victory did not come so easily. It was meant to humble them.

Dean of course discovered the broken statue some time later and took it as a personal insult, an offense to his worship. Castiel, thinking he’d done no wrong, freely admitted to the deed.

They’d been adversaries ever since.

 

Myths have been written for generations about the relationship between Dean and Castiel. Both gods of warfare, each represented a different aspect of battle: Dean was the passionate, rash, and bloodthirsty fighter who didn’t think much before charging into a fight, and Castiel was the calm, strategic, cold and calculating general of war. 

Needless to say, they never got along very well.

Castiel thought Dean tarnished a god’s good name. He was arrogant, promiscuous, savage, and too quick to act.

Naturally, Dean believed that Castiel was too uptight and never understood why the other god seemed to dislike him so much, especially when they were supposed to be comrades in arms. The statue incident was the last straw.

Castiel wanted to dick around with his authority? Fine. Lucky for him, Dean liked to fight dirty.

“Nice wagon, Cas,” Dean would snort as they pulled up alongside each other. “Ramses called. He wants his décor back.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “And that black behemoth of a chariot strikes you as practical?” he asked with biting severity.

Dean smirked. “Outruns YOU just fine.”

He snapped the reigns on his jet black horses and sped off, Castiel hot on his heels.

Despite being a washed out gold color, Castiel’s low-riding chariot ran smoothly and was considered the height of fashion in early antiquity. Still, Dean refused to call it anything but a cart.

It wasn’t like Dean didn’t have any experience with infighting among the pantheon. The name “Ares” actually comes from the Greek root ἀρή, meaning “bane, ruin, curse” – which is why the god tended to go by ‘Dean’ more often than not. Just for his profession, Dean was historically the most hated of the gods; even Zeus believed him to be so violent and hateful due to his proclivity for battle that he was neglectful and rude to him. Dean retreated to the warlike tribes of men instead, who were far more understanding. He learned their rituals and practices, dined with them and called them each by name. In Thrace, he could find good company and respect instead of loathing by his own kind.

In regards to Castiel, what was one more enemy in the grand scheme of things?

One clear night as Dean slept under a tree in the kingdom of men, two pairs of immense hands shot out and grabbed him, covering his mouth and pinning his arms so he could not fight back. With laughter ringing in his ear, the hulking beings – two Aloadai called Alastair and Azazel – stuffed Dean into a large urn and sealed the top. Dean beat and kicked at the sides for ages, but it was no use. The walls were thick and solid all around him. Dean screamed himself hoarse, but no one came to his aid. Not even his adoring followers could crack the urn, or get past the giants holding him captive.

He sat in that jar for a long time, wondering why Zeus had not come down to free him despite all his desperate praying, why none of his brothers or sisters thought to rescue him. He wondered idly if someone had ordered them _not_ to free him and instead commanded that he be left in there for all eternity. He was well and truly alone in his cramped prison, and for the first time Dean felt real _fear._

What if nobody ever came for him?

In a clap of thunder the jar suddenly cracked in half, and Dean squinted hard against the daylight. Directly in his path, haloed and furious, was _Castiel_ of all people, brandishing his thin blade and glaring at the Aloadai. He smote them without much effort at all, and then cautiously offered his clean hands to Dean.

“Are you alright?” he asked gently. His soft voice did not at all match the fury Dean had just witnessed. He was far too kind for all that Dean had done to purposefully piss him off.

Dean shoved the god’s hands away and stood on his own, brushing stray pieces of clay from his shoulders, too proud to take his help. “I’m fine,” he huffed, gritting his teeth. “I could have handled that.”

Castiel did not roll his eyes, did not scoff at him or turn away or mock him further, but merely stared at him with something like pity in his deep blue eyes. “I’m sorry that happened to you. And I’m sorry our father ignored your cries.”

Dean shrugged, utterly mortified. What kind of god was he supposed to be if not the strongest? And yet he couldn’t free himself from a simple jar? He had to rely on the charity of other gods who had every right to hate him. “Yeah, well. I’m used to it.”

Without so much as a ‘thank you’ he flew back to Thrace in a blast of hot air, where he was welcomed with cheers and open arms.

He might have sworn to hate Castiel for grievously offending him, but he could not deny that the god was sympathetic to him when no one else was. Perhaps he had misjudged him.

 

Castiel had always been widely popular, far more so than Dean, and he did resent him for it a little. A gifted strategist and tactician, Castiel was known for both his wisdom and intelligence. Many mortals even believed him to be the oldest of the gods, and referred to him reverently as an angel. Everyone, mortal and immortal alike, seemed to fall under the spell of those piercing blue eyes, but Dean knew better.

It’s why he’d never had any qualms about stealing from his plate at victory feasts, mocking his hideous antique of a chariot, removing the holy suffix from his name every chance he got, laughing at the mere sight of the Parthenon (a monument to Castiel’s rumored virginity, which Dean wasn’t sure he entirely believed but for the Greeks to construct something without a single phallic-shaped object in the vicinity was a pretty big deal if we’re being honest here). Dean considered them equals, but it was just common knowledge that he was the crude one, the one least liked, and he could hide behind that reputation for as long as he wanted to.

When Castiel broke his statue in Sparta, he thought he might have been making a statement about Dean’s vulnerability. Castiel was finally living up to his own hype, claiming superiority by defacing Dean’s tribute. But when he returned to Olympus after the urn excursion and not one person said a word about his escape – not “rescue,” but “escape” they were calling it – he was starting to wonder if Castiel considered them equals as well. He could have taken credit for the act and publicly humiliated Dean, and yet he did neither. In fact, very little changed between the two of them at all.

Dean’s confusion aligned with some disturbingly frequent occurrences. At banquets, Castiel would move his elbows from bracketing his plate when Dean reached for a bite of something regardless of what it was, even the tender lamb he knew Castiel was crazy for. When Dean called him “Cas” low in his ear Castiel wouldn’t bat an eye, but if anyone else so dared he was all narrowed eyes and threatening scowls.

They sparred occasionally, to keep each other sharp. Each of them had developed different techniques over time, and yet they were the only ones who could ever match each other in combat. Sometimes other minor gods came to watch their matches, betting on who they thought the winner would be.

Dean had been pushing his boundaries with Castiel as of late, trying to get him to respond as hatefully as the others did. He was hoping that this sparring match would serve as his springboard in determining how Castiel truly saw him, if the two of them could ever be allies worthy of each other’s trust someday.

Dean dealt the first blow, as usual. Castiel elegantly leaned to the side, rolling onto the outside of his foot, and stepped away as easy as breathing. He was so graceful when he moved, made it look like he wasn’t even trying.

Dean struck again, and Castiel took two steps this time, sideways and back. To the trained eye, a small smile began to appear on Castiel’s drawn face.

“Excellent move,” Castiel praised.

“Thanks,” Dean agreed, darting forward again.

They circled for a moment, and Dean could hear the raucous cheering from the betters in the background. The way Castiel fought was like a chess player: he mapped out his opponent’s strengths (brute force and speed on Dean’s part) and weaknesses (endurance, his left side) and adapted to their fighting style. Dean’s only saving grace was that he never went into a fight underestimating him.

Most people considered Castiel the better fighter, but Castiel’s proud smirk and dark roaming looks over Dean’s form as he moved suggested that he thought there was something to be _learned_ from Dean’s determination.

Cas shot out a leg and kicked Dean squarely in the chest, but Dean braced and centered himself. He smacked Castiel’s leg away, but was so preoccupied with it that he hadn’t even noticed Castiel’s hand coming for his temple. He took the hit and tipped, and Cas knocked him off his feet. The crowd cheered, and without pause Dean kicked up to take Castiel’s feet out from under him.

They both ended up on their backs, breathing hard and sweating.

Castiel picked himself up leisurely, but Dean didn’t get up. He was in the perfect position for pinning – if Castiel just stepped over him, he could claim the match.

But Castiel just dusted off his hands and nodded to Dean courteously, small smile still stuck on his face. “Thank you for the match, Dean,” he said.

Dean relaxed into the floor. “No problem, Cas.”

Castiel walked away, and the betters began to quarrel amongst themselves in divvying the winnings. No one had won, because Castiel had walked away.

 

For whatever reason, Raphael and Castiel did not get along terribly well. Dean suspected it had something to do with Castiel’s growing popularity in Greece – they had named the city Athens after his Greek name – but he couldn’t prove it.

He would smirk down at Castiel and proclaim him “too cold,” the opposite of his own blustering nature as the smith of Olympus. It wasn’t Castiel’s style to take things on the chin, but every time Raphael made a comment about the virgin angel who refused to marry – or even take a lover – Castiel just grit his teeth.

It drove Dean insane. Sure, Castiel’s virginity was kind of hilariously unexpected and sure, sometimes he was a little hard to read, but it was not for lack of the capacity to love. Was Dean truly the only soul who knew that Castiel actually tried to _stop_ the Trojan War before it even began?

He had gone down to the battle site, pure and glowing, and made each side promise peace together before a group of witnesses. If it weren’t for damned Pandaros and his trigger-happy finger, Castiel would have saved countless lives.

Aware that no one would listen, Dean never spoke up on his behalf, but he _knew_. He knew Castiel was different. There was compassion in him yet.

The Trojan War, for all Castiel’s heart ache, was challenging and terrible: Dean on the side of the ambitious Trojans and Castiel on the side of the high-minded Achaeans. They had each sworn to answer the prayers of their loyal whatever the cause; generals pled for Castiel’s guidance, foot soldiers for Dean’s strength and courage. Neither felt like conceding to the other despite the already immense death toll.

Dean didn’t even particularly care who won, he just heard that Cas was going down to help Achilles. Never one to turn down a good fight or a golden opportunity, Dean approached Benjamin Hektor and his wife Andreamache and offered his protection.

Anna, goddess of wisdom and grace, eventually came to Castiel’s side. They partnered together frequently in battle, being of the same opinion much of the time anyway. A new sun had risen over the battlefield, and it was scorching. Dean never bothered with armor, immortal as he was, but had also shed the light tunic he usually wore due to the oppressive heat. He was shining with a little sweat and streaked with dirt and blood, and the smile on his face as he cut through the Achaean front line was young and wild.

And, admittedly, very attractive.

“Wow,” Anna praised.

Castiel scoffed, following his companion’s gaze to his gleaming, glorious godly form. “If you like that sort of thing,” he grumbled. He could not help that his face was a bit red and that his eyes lingered a little too long on Dean’s back. He would blame it on the sun, and on suspicion.

“Tall, strong, and handsome,” Anna declared. “My kind of god.”

He wasn’t jealous, he was just finished with the conversation. It was pointless to fantasize about Dean anyway – Dean had been known to take a few mortal lovers for himself, all female nymphs and demi-gods. Women came to Dean’s bed willingly; he never had to posture or play games and he was never dismissive or rude like he was oftentimes to Castiel. It was clear that Dean _just didn’t like him_ , despite all of Castiel’s best efforts.

Rationally, he was mindful that Anna had a much better shot at him than he did.

Discouraged and sexually frustrated, Castiel stalked away to blow some steam off against the Trojans. He cut four down in one swing, barely even looking up from his feet, but he did look up long enough to notice Dean staring his way.

(Castiel was very aware of the fact that every time he set foot on the same plane as Dean, he had the other god’s complete and undivided attention. It was kind of flattering and frankly, Anna could suck it.)

As much as he obviously admired the other god, Castiel had a hang up about free will that sometimes conflicted with Dean’s blind loyalty. “Humans make their own choices and forge their own destinies, and the gods should not interfere with their lives beyond necessity.” Dean and Benny fought tirelessly at each other’s sides in the heat of battle, and when Dean unfairly retaliated against the human leader Diomedes, Castiel stepped in and diverted his spear. It missed Diomedes by a mile, and Dean, furious, was left wide open for the general to stick him with his sword.

He was so angry about the sleight that he snatched a spear out of his neighbor’s hand and lobbed it directly at Castiel.

It glanced off his shield – not well-aimed in his rage – but Cas fixed him with his own stormy look and grimaced with a curling upper lip. Neither seemed keen on backing down.

He began pelting Dean with enormous boulders, sharp stones that crashed upon his forearms and splintered off in showers of rocky hail to try and bury him. Punishment for trying to throw things at him. Gods can be petty too, you know.

A large boulder finally took Dean down, stumbling onto his ass in the dust. He watched Castiel from across the field approach with narrowed eyes when Gabriel suddenly appeared by his side, offering his hand and oblivious to the approaching god. Dean couldn’t imagine what Hermes was doing here – generally a coward and preferring the adoring company of the court – but was grateful for his presence regardless.

Castiel wasn’t having any of that. To drive his point home that Dean should stay down, Cas shot over in a telltale boom of thunder and decked Gabriel right across the face the old fashioned way: with his fist.

Dean cracked up so hard that he forgot he was ever mad at Castiel in the first place.

When the war was over and tallied Cas’s victory and Dean’s loss, they watched the city of Troy burn together. Dean’s face was hard and grim, his mouth drawn tight. His friend Benny had lost his life, his wife Andrea lost her husband and their daughter lost her father. Tortured screams echoed in the dark.

Dean could do nothing to spare them this pain. He felt powerless, and that is never how a god should feel.

Castiel watched Dean’s face carefully as the flames licked higher. He could not understand how Dean could forget that war had consequences. He pitied him then, so ruled by emotion like he was. It was why he had tried to halt the war in the first place.

He carefully rested a bloody hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean clenched his jaw, but he left it there.

 

The Trojan War was, sadly, not the last either god would have to face. There were other scores to settle, tribal disputes and petty squabbles. Men have that way about them. It will never change.

Unable to be everywhere at once, Castiel was wounded in battle one day while his back was turned. Cas cried out once, so shocked that he’d been struck. Some low level soldier held his spear point high over his head, gloating and delirious with pride.

To his utter surprise, Dean went absolutely _bat shit_.

He sent the guy flying with a hard shove. The man rolled shamefully through the dirt and his bloodied weapon was wrenched from his hand, crushed under the foot of an adjacent fighter.

Dean’s green eyes flashed. “You should show him some respect,” he told the man harshly.

The man at Dean’s feet scrabbled away in fear, eyes wide and wet. Unarmed in this conflict, he was a goner.

Dean turned back to Castiel, whose wound had since healed. “Good?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Castiel stared, lips parted and brow furrowed. “Good,” he assured. “Why did you do that?” he blurted.

Dean blinked at him like he was the dumbest being in the world. “You would have done the same for me, right?” he said.

His response was posed as a fact, but Castiel could hear the real question behind his words. So slow to trust, Dean’s words were a gamble. Castiel wouldn’t dare hurt him further – in fact, all he had ever wanted was to be considered a friend to the misunderstood deity. “Of course,” he answered surely.

Dean smiled a little and ducked his head, flicking his sword around in his hands. “So no big deal,” he murmured.

Dean continued to be surprisingly sweet to him after that even though he wasn’t technically injured anymore; he seemed hell bent on blocking his weak side when Cas was distracted. They ended up fighting back to back, and Castiel truly couldn’t even remember who he was supposed to be fighting for.

What no one ever seemed to understand was that Dean’s passion was truly the best thing about him. _Castiel_ had thought that obvious, but time after time the ignorance of his fellow gods astounded him. He saw it here, and in every battle Dean fought. His drive in war did not come from a desire for chaos, but out of fierce protectiveness for those who called on him for strength – for he had strength to offer, and he knew what it felt like to be alone and powerless and would spare anyone else the feeling – for the sake of order and peace of mind. Really they two were not so different. Castiel had made an unexpected comrade out of him, he thought happily, and on the field it was obvious that the feeling was reciprocated.

Dean finally won a major battle after his devastating loss at Troy, and the victory was well deserved. Castiel dropped his spear to the ground, panting slightly, and turned to him, still pressed close to his side. He could feel the heat rolling off him in waves.

Cas bowed his head respectfully and said, “Well fought.” And just because they were friends didn’t mean that they weren’t still as competitive as they’d always been. Castiel assumed Dean would take territory of the defeated as his prize, a conquest or two from the royal harem, gold, animals, but Dean just shook his head.

“I don’t want kings or countries,” he told Cas.

He was such a sight, bright green eyes against the backdrop of ruin they had created. A scarred landscape, soaked in blood, and a beautiful creature like Dean stood in the middle of it. “Then what do you want?” Castiel asked slowly, frowning. He would be happy to give Dean anything he asked.

Dean leaned in cautiously, kissed him full on the mouth, and Castiel kissed back.

Swathed in Dean’s twinkling laughter, he lost his precious virginity on the floor of the Parthenon.


End file.
